AN ARRIVAL AND A MEETING.
When Mr. Tremain entered the drawing-room later in the evening, he was
at once conscious of Patricia's presence. It did not require the
practical use of his eyes to assure himself of the fact, for to him the
room and the company were permeated with her personality.
It had always been so with Patricia. When she entered an assembly she
drew to herself all the light and vivacity and beauty of the scene; and
the homage which was always immediately accorded her, seemed but a
fitting tribute to her fascinations.
Other women, by far more beautiful, paled before the witchery of her
face; other wits, whose slightest expression was a _bon-mot_, faded into
insignificance when she entered the lists.
And yet she was neither very beautiful, nor very _spirituelle_; but she
possessed in a rare degree that nameless _something_, that charm of
presence, of voice, of manner, which is unconquerable because
intangible, and against which it is worse than useless to resist. It is
a dangerous attribute, and heavy is the responsibility of those who
possess it; it may lead them and others to the highest feats of heroic
sacrifice, and it may doom them to the lowest depths of the woe that is
eternal.
Philip, as he crossed the room, looked not so much for Patricia herself,
but rather to where the black coats gathered thickest, and the tinkling
sound of gay laughter and careless _persiflage_ waxed loudest; there he
knew he should find Miss Hildreth, for was she not the candle about
which the silly moths gathered eagerly, glad to singe their humble
wings, or even spend their lives, if only once the flame of her
brilliancy might rest upon them, and lift them for a moment from the
dull round of commonplace?
The seal she affected was indeed a typical one, he thought, as he moved
towards her with a slight smile upon his lips, his face still pale from
his recent emotion; and was he any better than his fellows? Were not his
unwilling feet moving towards her, drawn as the needle to the magnet?
Was not his heart beating tumultuously at the thought of holding her
hand in his once more? Was he not, in fact, the silliest of all human
moths, since he, who knew by experience the cruelty of that flame, yet
sought it wantonly, glad to bask again for a brief half-hour in its
baleful light? As he came close to where sat Miss Hildreth, a queen of a
mimic court, the knot of adorers and worshippers fell back, and accorded
him, as of a right, a free passage to the lady of their allegiance. In
a moment the hum of general conversation ceased; even Mrs. Newbold, who
had watched his entrance with only half-suppressed excitement, felt the
words die upon her lips, while Miss James made no pretence of even
listening to her cavalier as she noted with flashing eyes and sullen
heart the meeting of these whilom lovers, and Dick Darling, with
sympathy written on every line of her fresh young face, laid an
impetuous hand on Jack Howard's arm, drawing him a step or two nearer
the charmed circle. Thus watched by every eye, and almost in total
silence, Mr. Tremain bowed low before Patricia, holding out his hand, as
he said in his most deferential tones:
"May I hope that Miss Hildreth still keeps a place for me in her
remembrance, although it is so long since we last met?"
And now surely, if ever, Patricia earned for herself the character so
freely bestowed upon her, of petulance and inconstancy. She raised her
head a trifle haughtily as she replied, and so managed as not to see Mr.
Tremain's outstretched hand, while her words fell cold and cutting:
"Can Mr. Tremain expect any woman to remember ten years back and own to
it?"
Then she laughed, a cool, well-trained little defiant laugh, and turned
nonchalantly to a tall, dark, foreign-looking man, who alone of all her
court had refused to fall back as Philip approached her. The slight was
a direct one, but if it told, the hurt was invisible to the world, for
Mr. Tremain, smiling a little more indulgently, answered her no less
coolly:
"That Miss Hildreth should remember the number of years since we met is
answer sufficient, and too great an honour."
Then he bowed again, and turned away, and the crowd of eager satellites
moved up closer and filled the gap; only Miss James remarked the wave of
angry colour that swept across Patricia's face, and for an instant dyed
it crimson.
Meantime, Mr. Tremain moved quietly back, and stationed himself where,
half-hidden by the heavy falling _portières_, he could study unseen the
face and form of the woman on whom for ten long years he had bestowed
the greatest love of his life.
It was with keenest eyes of disapproval that he noted each change in
her, changes that to him seemed indicative only of the interior
alteration that had come over her, and that while it gave her the
polished brilliancy of a costly gem, he felt was gained only by some
corresponding loss of heart.
Miss Hildreth was dressed in white, without a spot of colour save for
the large bouquet of Parma violets that lay unheeded on her lap. Her
costume, though simple in the extreme, yet bore evidence, even to
Philip, of its costliness, and reminded him sadly, with its soft silken
folds and filmy laces, of the dress in which he had last seen her.
Evidently these baubles of fashion had not lost their charm to Patricia.
Mr. Tremain in his character of critic saw only artificiality in each
little curl that formed the coronal of soft, dusky hair, crowning the
small delicate head; he read worldliness in each guarded laugh, each
well-modulated tone; he descried vanity and pride in the very gestures
of her hands--those little hands that had once rested so trustingly in
his, and on which he had showered so many hot, youthful kisses. He noted
every turn of her head, every line of her sweet face, every movement of
the slim upright form, and to him it seemed as though a cold hard
imperceptible coating of worldly artifice and selfishness wrapped her
around and about, as hard and keen and impregnable as any corslet of
triply-tried steel, from which all shafts of remembrance, affection,
compassion, or naturalness, glanced off harmless, not leaving even a
dent behind upon the polished surface.
This, then, was Patricia after ten long years? This was the woman of his
love. This was the wilful Patty for whom Esther Newbold had pleaded so
generously, and towards whom his heart had become as wax in the fire of
tender remembrance. This was the reality of his vision; he had come from
the presence of that spiritual Patty face to face with the real
Patricia, and so coming his heart and soul had been moved with love and
compassion towards her; he had yearned to make all right between them,
to forget the past, to knit together the broken skein of their two
lives, to be, in fact, magnanimous and generous, to hold out the hand of
forgiveness and reconciliation, and to welcome in return a heart-broken,
remorseful, penitent Patricia, who should fall upon his heart with glad
gratitude, while she owned herself vanquished and grateful for the
immensity of his goodness and patronage.
And he had found instead of this imaginary Patty a woman of the world,
unmoved by his presence, irresponsive to his generosity, unconscious of
her own shortcomings, unremorseful for the past, in fact, forgetful of
it and of him; who, with cool insolence, overlooked his outstretched
hand, and, with the well-bred impertinence of her class, made plain her
indifference to him. Well, and was he not right when he told Esther
Newbold that he would not consent again to play the fool to a woman's
vanity? Had he not read aright Miss Hildreth's character when she
scorned him ten years ago, and withdrew her love, because of his poverty
and his bucolic indifference to the _petits soins_ of her every-day
life? Had he judged her too harshly? No; a thousand times no! Her
character was but in bud then, and he had only too well foreseen how
bitter would be the blossom, though so fair in outward seeming.
Ah, well! Let the dream vanish, the vision fade! He had been but allured
by the Lorelei of desire, and, however near he had approached to the
scorching flame of her seductions, he had come forth unscathed.
His meditations were here interrupted by a touch on his shoulder, and
George Newbold's pleasant voice in his ear.
"I say, Tremain, I want to introduce some one to you----. Oh, no, my
good fellow, _not_ a woman; I am too much your friend to betray you in
such a fashion. It's a man for whom I bespeak your politeness--a man,
and not a brother, since he is a foreigner."
Mr. Newbold, after this, for him, very long speech, stopped to take
breath, and, as he did so, patted Philip affectionately on the shoulder.
"There he is," he continued, presently, moving Mr. Tremain about, and
motioning towards the crowd that still surrounded the spot where sat
Patricia. "Don't you see him? Tall, dark man, pasty face and black eyes,
wears a red ribbon in his button-hole that fetches all the
women--there, bending over Miss Hildreth! By Jove! he's scarcely left
her side since I presented him. She's a witch, is Miss Patty--a witch,
with a long head, and minus a broomstick."
"Who is he?" asked Philip, not particularly impressed by the stranger's
appearance. "Where on earth did you pick him up, and what the devil made
you bring him down here?"
"He picked me up, don't you see?" replied George Newbold, not in the
least put out by Philip's evident bad temper. "Found him at the
Club--the Union, you know. Townsend had introduced him, and made him a
stranger member. He brought a line of introduction to Townsend from Jim
Goelet, who knew him in Paris. Townsend said he had been asking for
me--knew my name, he said, from hearing the Goelets speak of me so
often--awfully kind of Jim and Ada, I'm sure--so he wanted to know me,
and I couldn't do less than be civil, so I asked him down for the
theatricals--my birthday, you know--and he leaped at my fly at once, so
here he is."
"I don't like him," said Mr. Tremain, didactically. "What's his name,
Newbold, and where does he hail from?"
"Here's his card," replied George, pulling it out of his
waistcoat-pocket. "I thought I had better be sure about it because of
introducing him, you know. The women do get so savage when you leave a
fellow's patronymic vague. Bless them, the dears! They've got their
'Almanach de Gotha' at their fingers' ends, and know to a fraction's
nicety just how cordial they should be to each individual mother's son
of them. So many smiles and graciousness to the elder son of a peer, so
many less to an Honourable, and so many less again to a younger
detrimental. The women of this country, my dear Tremain, are mad, simply
mad over titles. It's the irony of history. What our forefathers fought
and died for--equality, and the abolishment of mere hereditary
rights--their grandchildren fall down and worship. For my part, I
wonder the stern old Puritans don't turn in their graves with horror!"
The card which Mr. Tremain held bore the name of Count Vladimir
Mellikoff, and had no address save a pencilled one--"Brevoort House"--in
one corner. The bit of paste-board was as non-committal as the
stranger's face.
"Is he a Russian?" asked Philip.
"It looks so, doesn't it?" was the careless reply. "'A Roosian or a
Proosian,' but certainly _not_ 'an Englishman.' Perhaps he's a Nihilist
in disguise, perhaps he's a dynamiter, or a Land-leaguer, or a
red-handed Communist, who knows? At any rate, he's got his match in Miss
Patty; never saw such a case of 'bowl over' at first sight in my life,
never, I give you my word."
But Philip failed to rejoice in Mr. Newbold's hilarity; and that
gentleman strolled off presently, in his peculiarly aimless fashion, and
securing Count Vladimir Mellikoff by the simple device of slipping his
hand within his arm, led him up to Philip, presenting him with all due
ceremony.
Mr. Tremain, contrary to the traditions of his country, and taking a
leaf from Patricia's own book, passed by the foreigner's outstretched
hand, and with a somewhat forbidding manner and bow, entered into
conversation.
Count Vladimir, however, was not to be easily distanced or put down; he
could with rare tact suit his manner and his words to the individual of
the moment who formed his audience; so now, with his usual keen insight,
while discovering Mr. Tremain's half-formed distrust and dislike, he
also recognised his superior intellect and position, and set himself to
work at once to dispel the unfavourable impression he had made. He had
not learned his earliest lessons in diplomacy at Europe's politest
Court, Petersburg, for nothing, therefore it was not long before Philip
found his suspicions and scepticism melting beneath the charm of his
manner, and his cultivated, modest conversation. He learned without
trouble, that Count Mellikoff was travelling in the States for pleasure
principally, though with a suspicion of political business to give
interest to his visit; that he was a diplomat by birth and training, and
a loyal servant to the present Tsar of all the Russias, whom he served
with the like love and fidelity he had formerly bestowed upon Alexander
II.
He was a distinguished-looking man, rather than handsome, with an air of
breeding and distinction in the thin face, keen small black eyes,
aquiline nose and broad, rather pointed forehead. His manners were
self-possessed and quiet, he spoke English fluently, and in a pleasantly
modulated voice, while the few gestures he used were indicative of
absolute self-control. Mr. Tremain soon discovered that nothing escaped
his observation, he was aware of every movement of the various groups
scattered about the drawing-rooms, and while apparently absorbed in the
topic of the moment, had the attribute of prescience so widely
developed as to be conscious of the general tone of conversation
throughout the room.
Philip acknowledged himself fascinated, and ere long dropping his
habitual reserve, he entered cordially into Count Vladimir's graphic
descriptions of life in Petersburg. By degrees the conversation glided
on to more intimate grounds, and Philip found himself asking somewhat
bold questions as to a certain Russian practice in which he had long
been much interested. Count Mellikoff replied frankly and with great
openness, and only laughed a little indulgently when Mr. Tremain
advanced gingerly upon the spy system of the Tsar's Government. His
remarks were firm and to the point, and the Count became more and more
earnest as he refuted them, giving his interlocutor, every now and then,
a keen and searching look.
"You cannot deny, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain at last, speaking
with more than his usual animation, "that the spy system, as practised
by your Government, makes of every true Russian a special constable,
whose work is well understood, and whose life is devoted to the
espionage, not only of suspects, but of every Russian citizen. You
become, in fact, individual policemen, and you each watch the other with
keenest scrutiny, ready at any moment to denounce and arrest each
other."
"Why should I deny it, my dear sir?" answered the Count, very quietly.
"It would be but useless waste of breath on my part, since all the world
looks with awe and wonder on the workings of the Imperial Chancellerie
of Petersburg. Nay, so far from denying it, let me give you some faint
idea of its workings, and of the far-reaching, all-powerful engines it
employs. Our system is divided into two sections, one of which is
devoted to all international or foreign questions; the other deals only
with the surveillance of the Tsar's subjects, who, for the time being,
are non-resident or abroad. Our agents of the first section are
generally well known; as a rule they make no secret of their connection
with the Imperial Chancellerie, and they consist of both sexes and of
all classes. Indeed, we find our cleverest work often accomplished by
ladies. I need but mention Madame Novikoff, whose influence and power
over a certain Premier of England is but a matter of common _on dits_,
and who, at one time, seriously affected the foreign policy of Great
Britain. That work accomplished, she has wrought further mischief to Her
Majesty's Government by encompassing the defection of Dhuleep Singh and
enrolling him under Russia's flag. It is not beside the question, sir,
if, in the future, he does not become a source of trouble to the British
authorities at Calcutta. That, sir, is one woman's work. On the
Continent, again, I could point out to you, in almost every city of
importance, a like emissary. In Paris there was the charming Princess
Lise Troubetskoi, followed now by that Marquis de ---- and his
fascinating wife, whose hotel is the gathering-place of all the _élite_,
and whose identity is as strictly unknown now as when first they
startled all Paris by the magnificence of their entertainments. At
Brussels you will find Madame de M----; at Dresden, the Countess de
B----; in Switzerland, the Prince A. P----; and at Rome, the Marquise di
P----. Even Egypt is not forgotten, and in the Countess J---- Russia
finds an able coadjutor, whose position as lady-in-waiting to the
vice-Queen gains for us many secrets communicated by the British
Government to the Khedive. And even you, sir, must remember the great
noise regarding Madame Blavatsky, who, as the priestess of theosophy,
for many years carried on a secret correspondence with Monsieur
Zinovieff, then Chief of the Asiatic Department of the Foreign Office,
and with Prince Doudaroff Korsakoff, Governor-General of the Caucasus?
But for Lord Dufferin's clear-sightedness, Madame might still be
carrying on her patriotic work."
"You astonish me, Count Mellikoff," said Mr. Tremain, as his informant
stopped to draw breath; "I knew that 'the little father' held undoubted
sway over all his own vast territory, but not that he bisected other
nations with such regular and effective engines."
Count Mellikoff smiled, and the fire in his deep-set eyes leapt up, as
he answered:
"Sir, this is but a small portion of the all-powerful protection
bestowed on his children by our father, the Tsar. Even here, in your own
land of equality and freedom, his emissaries are ever at work, and from
every capital of Europe, indeed from many insignificant towns and
villages, there go forth daily weekly or monthly reports to the Imperial
Chancellerie at Petersburg. Is it not useless, then, for any one
individual to fight against so omnipotent and universal a power?"
"Worse than useless, I should say," replied Philip, wondering within
himself as he spoke, what part was played in the great political drama
by this same quiet, well-bred gentleman who stood before him.
"But this," continued Count Mellikoff, smiling again, and turning his
intensely black eyes, in which no pupil was visible, but all seemed
iris, full upon Mr. Tremain, "this is but one section of the great
organisation, and in some ways the most insignificant. The second
section, which has to do directly with the Tsar's subjects abroad, is of
much vaster proportions, and wields a far greater power. If you will
permit me, sir, to introduce dry statistics?" And the Count drew from
his pocket a small but substantial note-book, which he held unopened,
waiting for Mr. Tremain's reply.
Philip bowed a trifle impatiently, as he said: "I beg you will continue,
Count Mellikoff; statistics are the back-bone of political economics in
all countries; to me they bear a special charm."
"I thank you, sir," replied the Count, who evidently was a literal
translator of the polite Gaelic, _Monsieur_. He opened the note-book,
and turned over the pages carefully and with a practised hand.
"Ah!" he said at last, "I have it. Listen, sir, to a quotation from the
reports of the Chancellerie: 'In the year 1884, no less than 890,318
Russian subjects of the Tsar crossed the Western frontier, for the
purpose of paying more or less prolonged visits to foreign countries.
The next year the numbers had increased to 920,563;' and you must bear
in mind that I do not exaggerate when I assert that every one of these
travellers is subjected to the same amount of espionage abroad as at
home. Their every movement is noted, every remark reported, every change
of residence recorded. There lives no true-born and loyal Russian who is
not bound by conscience, if not by oath, to report to Petersburg
anything that may seem to him suspicious, or amiss, in any of his
fellow-countrymen. It may be only a word, a look, a letter, a handshake,
nothing is too trivial, because out of trivialities have grown the great
revolutions of the world. You may be living in India, China, England, or
America; you may be rich and noble, or poor and dependent; if you are
one of the Tsar's children, you may be very sure that every day and hour
of your life is known, nay, is commented upon and discussed within the
Imperial Chancellerie, no matter how many thousands of miles of sea and
land separate you from Russia. At any moment the Tsar can call you to
account; he is no respecter of persons; it may be the highest noble at
the Court, the poorest serf on the steppes, the fashionable beauty of
the hour, the hired governess of your children, the maid of your
toilette, the _valet de place_; the very highest and the very lowest,
one and all must obey when the voice of the Tsar of all the Russians
speaks the word of command. No crime can be so hidden but it will be
unearthed, no reparation accepted unless appointed by Imperial edict, no
forgiveness sanctioned unless granted by word of the Tsar. Said I not
right, sir, is it not a grand and wonderful system, this that puts to
shame Nature's barriers, and acknowledges no limits to its power, save
its own Imperial will?"
Count Mellikoff ceased speaking, and Philip, looking at him, saw his
face for one moment lit with the mocking fires of conscious malignity
and indomitable, cruel perseverance. For one moment only; but in that
moment the fierce light of his eyes seemed to scorch all who came within
its radiance--nay, seemed even to traverse the long room and touch
Patricia with its malevolence. Then the passion faded, and the Count
stood quietly before him, a smile on his lips, the black note-book
clasped firmly between the long, thin fingers of both hands.
Mr. Tremain felt all his original dislike and mistrust rush full upon
him once more. He for one moment felt actual hatred for this calm,
composed foreigner, and his quiet, well-tutored face, his low voice and
persuasive manner, and, above all, for the horrible system of torture
and surveillance he upheld as his tenets and dogma. He gave a short,
hard laugh as he replied:
"I cannot compliment you, Count Mellikoff, on either section of your
system. To me, as I said before, you all appear to act only as special
police spies, each one ready and eager to betray the other should
occasion arise, and each knowing the other to hold this power over him.
You have interested me deeply; but, pardon me, I cannot jump with you
the entire length of the Tsar's fatherly protection, as exemplified by
the Imperial Chancellerie. I have an old-fashioned prejudice in favour
of individual free will and independence."
Count Mellikoff made a slight bow, and the smile on his lips deepened as
he answered:
"At least, sir, you will pay us this justice, you never hear one
Russian speak evil of another (I speak, of course, only of those of a
certain social standing), nor will our ambassadors give any direct
information to foreigners concerning any fugitive from justice, no
matter how doubtful and suspicious their actions may appear. With us,
sir, loyalty to our great Tsar and to his Government go hand-in-hand
with our lives."
Mr. Tremain replied only by a gesture of assent, for, as he began to
speak, George Newbold came up to him once more, and carried him off,
with a hurried apology to the Count.
"We want him, you see. Many pardons, but he is needed for rehearsal.
I'll be back directly," and Philip, thus hustled away, had no time to
explain.
Count Vladimir Mellikoff stood very still for some moments after Philip
left him; the lines of care and thought that were graven innumerably
about his eyes and the corners of his mouth, came forth with startling
prominence, and gave a crafty, sceptical look to his countenance; his
eyes gleamed in their hollow sockets, his lips moved quickly, and then,
with a sudden upward gesture of his right hand, he put back the
note-book in his pocket, and, turning, walked slowly back to where he
had left Patricia surrounded by her gay adorers.
The room, however, was empty now, and had Miss Hildreth been in very
deed but a vision of his own creating she could not have vanished more
completely--not a trace of her remained. The great carved chair in which
she had sat was pushed hastily back, and about it, grouped in confusion,
stood the ottomans, stools, _causeuses_ and low _fauteuils_, in which
her train of devotees had reposed themselves, all equally unoccupied
now. Not a trace of the queen of the revels, or her light-hearted
companions, remained--not one. Yet stay; what is this lying on the
floor, half-hidden by the fallen satin cushion of her chair? This bit
of finest muslin and filmy lace, dropped or forgotten by Patricia as she
moved away indifferent, yet alive, to every note of praise or flattery
that rang about her.
Count Mellikoff crossed the room with noiseless footsteps, bent down and
picked up the dainty morsel; it proved to be a lady's handkerchief, and
in the corner were an embroidered crest, and the initials _A. de L._ The
Count gave one long-drawn sigh, almost a gasp, and then with dexterous
fingers folded the delicate article neatly and placed it in an inner
pocket of his waistcoat. He smiled as he did so, and said, half aloud:
"There's treason in every inch of that cambric and lace! Ah, madame, how
we overreach ourselves sometimes, and how the odour of violets clings to
every thread of this little traitor!"
Then he turned and walked down the empty room, and as he reached the
heavily-draped doors dividing the drawing-rooms from the music-hall, one
of the curtains was pulled further aside, and he came face to face with
Miss Rosalie James.